turning page
by sakura aesthetic
Summary: "I'm glad we did this." For if they hadn't, Harry Potter would not have become her husband. For tonight is their turning page, a marked step in the next chapter of their lives wherein whatever they must face, they will face together.


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 **Turning Page**

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 _I surrender who I've been for who you are_

 _for nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart_

— _sleeping at last —_

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Tonight is where it begins, where _they_ begin.

It has been three years since the war drew to a close. Three years since they left Hogwarts. Three years since they embraced one another, grateful for the breadth of peace that had fallen upon the wizarding world, lucky enough to simply hold one another. They should have died. _He_ should have died. But he didn't.

For now, he's standing on the opposite side of the room, a smile gracing his lips, exhaling in awe as their eyes meet. And really, Hermione is indebted to those who kept him alive, to those who encouraged him. Because despite the curse that shook him to the brink of life, he remains upright on his own two feet. Despite the pain and suffering inflicted upon him, a grin emerges across his face. Despite the nightmares that had haunted him; the secrets that had suffocated him; the memories that had burdened him, he is breathing.

He tells her she is the reason why. That she is his strength, his happiness, his air.

They breathe together now. _Inhale_. _Exhale_. She takes a step forward. _Inhale_. _Exhale_. He takes a step forward. _Inhale_. _Exhale_. They reach their destination: each other.

"I can't believe it," she murmurs, peeking at him through her thick lashes.

"I can… you're mine."

He offers his hand and she willingly takes it, fingers intertwining as he leads her to the dance floor. The room is alive with the reverberating thrum of the bass, satin gowns twirling in time with the music, candles lighting the enclosed space. It's beautiful and much, _much_ more than Hermione ever anticipated.

"I'm glad we did this," he whispers.

Her attention shifts back to him. Under the dim lighting, shadows are cast across his face, but she discerns between his features easily. His black hair is as unruly as ever, no different to the way it looked the first time they met on the Hogwarts Express ten years ago. His face, on the other hand, has transformed. Sometimes, she wakes in his arms, wondering how he grew from that scrawny, little boy into a man so strong. And above all, his green eyes are pulling her in, like the waves of the ocean kissing the shore.

And all she wants is to kiss him, to melt into his arms. He can burn her for all she cares, as long as he never lets her go again. She's wanted this—his embrace—since their second year wherein she awoke from paralysis and came stumbling into the Great Hall, eyes careening over the vast crowd, searching for him. Once she'd found him, she had started running, barrelling into his chest, tears in her eyes, thanking Merlin for letting him escape the chamber scathed but alive, able to see her again. The mere thought of losing him, even as a friend back then, would have been too emotional, too heavy a burden for the young Gryffindor to shoulder.

The memory subsides long enough to bring Hermione back to the present, a firm hand now secured at her hip, the world swaying. In the corner of her eye, she catches sight of her family, her friends, but in reality, all she can focus on is the man twirling her around and around in circles. She feels as if she's flying, soaring. He lifts her off the ground, hooking his arm under the small of her back, keeping her from falling whilst dipping her low to the floor. She loves this, feeling as if nothing can ground her, feeling as if the world is weightless.

The last time she felt so free had been their third year, wherein she reversed time, sparing the innocent hippogriff, and braving the cell that held Sirius captive. And on their raid, the duo had flown higher than ever, breaking through the clouds and summiting Hogwarts' towers; she had never seen a more perfect sky, the stars twinkling, stunning her. And though Hermione had been scared, a pair of calm, green eyes had swiveled to look at her, telling her to put her arms around him—her fear of falling quickly dissipated. She hasn't been afraid of heights since then, knowing that he'd _always_ be there to catch her whenever she fell.

"You look stunning, Hermione."

Glancing up, she finds his eyes glued to her dress. The brunette can't help but smile, a blush coating her cheeks.

"Thank you," she whispers, putting it upon herself to spin for him.

The dress ripples out, the fabric spreading like waves. She keeps twirling, the few rhinestones embedded into her bodice sparkling, tendrils of hair fluttering around her face, her white gown lifting and billowing around her dancing feet. She beams at him, delighted by the wondrous expression that crosses his face, then curtsies, to which he bows and releases a chuckle.

"Modesty has never been your virtue," he teases, then gathers her in his arms once more and continues to waltz her across the floor.

"Never has been," she laughs whilst locking her arms around his neck, pulling them closer together. His breath fans across her lips, leaving them tingling in excitement, anticipation. She wants to kiss him but refrains, appreciating the slow spin he's leading them into.

"But really, Hermione… you look beautiful."

Other than him, the last time someone had said she was beautiful had been Viktor Krum at the Yule Ball their fourth year. His intentions had been innocent, inviting her for a night of dancing and nothing more, to which she agreed upon immediately. The night of the celebration, she had surprised him with a blue dress and a head of artfully placed curls—it had been the first time she'd ever dressed up, let alone dressed up for anyone else. Nonetheless, she had been pleased by his reaction and allowed him to escort her to the middle of the snow-covered Great Hall for the first dance. As quickly as Viktor admitted to how beautiful she had looked, however, Ron had begrudgingly pulled her aside bearing a look of scorn, envious as hell of her "distasteful" and "misleading" appearance; thus, ruining her night.

But it got better… when he came.

With her knees tucked to her chest, eyes red and itchy and aching from the tears that never seemed to stop, she had felt a familiar warmth wrap around her, hugging her close. She'd sighed, then gratefully took the tissue that he offered her, sniffling for a few minutes more before caving and sobbing to her heart's content. He said nothing; he simply rubbed soothing circles into her back, waiting for her to catch her breath and exhale slowly. Enamored by his chivalry, she drew herself closer to him, grasping his dress robes and looked into his astonishing, green eyes, somehow hoping he could save her. And he had by saying three astounding words: "you are beautiful."

Merlin, he had said it without a hint of doubt, without a blip of hesitation. It had been genuine—his green eyes locked with hers, caressing her tear-stained face, cherishing her cheeks that were surely blotchy as hell, combing through her hair in disarray; he had called her beautiful when she had deemed herself ugly.

And here they are, many years later—her tears long since dried, her bushy hair finally tamed—gliding across the room, bodies close, his lips brushing against her ear saying those three spellbinding words once more. She can't help but giggle, to which he grins, then places a chaste kiss on her feverish cheek.

"You are beautiful. So beautiful. Really, truly, beautiful," he repeats, then meets her eyes, "I'll keep saying it over and over again so long as I can hear you laugh."

She nods, fiercely blushing, and tucks her chin into the crook of his shoulder, wanting to be closer if at all possible. He smells like fresh parchment, the wicker of a broom, and of course, Croakoa (he never did abandon his sweet tooth for all things chocolate). But most of all, he smells like home, _her_ home, and she never wants to leave.

He is warm. He is safe. He is _hers_.

Hermione doesn't know who she'd be without him.

As they sway to the gentle hum of the music, Hermione holds him tighter, never wanting to let him go again. Somewhere during the second verse of the song, his hand caresses hers, sewing their fingers together. He deftly releases Hermione, unraveling her, spinning her; she yields an exuberant laugh, then slowly folds back into the cavity of his chest. The proximity between the duo is minimal; yet, she wants to be closer, to be tied into knots they couldn't untie, to be stitched into one. She wants to stay there forever: in his arms.

Nothing has changed since their years at Hogwarts, since their days of running away. No matter how dangerous their path may appear, she will never leave him. Because when everything becomes dark, when the world grows cold, when all hope seems lost, his arms have been and always will be her light, her comfort, her safe haven. And since that night in which they first danced—hands clapped together, feet prancing across the floorboards, alone to themselves within the confines of the dimly lit, canvas tent—she's known that through thick and thin, she'd always be there for him too. To be the light of his life. To be the family he never had. To be worthy of his trust. To protect him. To cherish him. To _love_ him.

Her gaze meets his, emerald holding chestnut. Clumsily, their knuckles brush against one another before their fingers lace together.

"I'm glad we did this too," she whispers, then arches her neck to better kiss him, to better kiss Harry Potter.

For if they hadn't done this, Harry Potter—the boy who lived, the boy who dared, the boy who loved—would not be hers to kiss, to melt into, to hold. They wouldn't have exchanged their vows. They wouldn't have the fated bands of gold adorning their ring fingers. For if they hadn't, Harry Potter would not have become her husband.

For tonight is their turning page, a marked step in the next chapter of their lives wherein whatever they must face, they will face together.

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 **A/N—** Yup, I'm back in the Harry Potter fandom, but then again, I don't think I ever really left. I don't really know where this came from; I was listening to _Turning Page_ by Sleeping at Last and it kind of just happened. Anyways, hope you guys liked this.


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